


Routine

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [43]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 17:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13392864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Feed my dog at the table and I’m dumping you,” Harry says. Beau knows better than to beg at the table when it’s just him and Harry, but he always goes right back to it when he has guests. Harry suspects some of those guests have been undermining Harry’s training, and fuck knows he’s not letting his boyfriends do the same.Boyfriends. What. Unless it’s too early to say, but. Boyfriends. Plural.





	Routine

There’s something kind of sordid about having sex when the sun’s still out. It’s ridiculous, Harry knows that it’s a ridiculous feeling to have, but he can’t help it. But then, unlike in a hotel room, the only thing they have to worry about is Beau’s whining reaching a pitch that they can’t ignore, rather than some asshole teammate with a key barging in, so maybe the sordidness cancels itself out?

There’s something definitely sordid about having sex with _two_ people. And not as a one off, not fulfilling some kind of threesome fantasy or whatever, but as like, a matter of _routine_. Not that it’s routine, exactly. It certainly doesn’t _feel_ routine.

Routine isn’t his skin buzzing from the scrape of Roman’s beard, his dick leaking in Evan’s big, clever hand, isn’t muffling whatever noise he’s making against the thick column of Roman’s throat when Evan twists his wrist just right, opening his mouth and tasting salt against Roman’s skin, the metallic scrape against his tongue from the thick gold chain Roman wears. 

Routine isn’t the stretch of his jaw, the solid weight of Roman’s cock on his tongue, Roman’s thighs bracketing his head, tense muscle under his hand as he braces himself on one, coiled strength and restraint as Roman murmurs scratchily how good he is, and Harry’s embarrassed by how much he wants Roman to keep talking, to keep telling him that.

Routine isn’t Evan tasting Roman in his mouth, breath hitching when he does, or maybe not because of that at all, maybe because Roman’s shifting down his body, leaving a trail of kisses down his chest, and probably scrapes too, the buzz of beard burn that’ll mark Evan like the blush that crawls down his skin, follows embarrassment and exertion and arousal, the blush that’s there now, so if Roman’s left any sign of his presence on Evan’s skin, Harry can’t see it yet. 

Queen beds have always been big enough before, and it’s bigger than the double they managed to deal with before, but there are still a couple touch and go moments where scooting just a little bit is liable to land you on the floor. Roman grabs his arm before he topples over at one point, and his fingers dig in kind of painfully, like maybe they’ll leave a mark of Harry’s close call with the ground, but Harry feels obliged to kiss him in thanks anyway. 

There’s light filtering through his curtains. It’s cold out, but it’s sunny, and in the patch of sunlight that illuminates his bed it’s warm. They all gravitate towards it like cats, after, sedated by the warmth of skin and sun and the heavy down comforter Harry pulls out in winter — or, winter weather, so most of the season, honestly. 

Harry drifts a little before he’s knocked out of his doze by a plaintive whine outside the door. 

“Coming, buddy,” Harry says automatically through a sleep cottoned mouth, sitting up slowly. 

Roman’s snoring, which is totally typical, and Evan’s somehow curled himself into tiny ball in complete contradiction of, like, physics, his cheek pillowed on Roman’s shoulder. They’re both completely out, like pre-game nap level pass out on cue. Harry guesses they’ve all been trained to sleep on demand.

Harry rubs a thumb over a knob of Evan’s spine, prominent despite the weight he’s put on. He doesn’t stir a bit, and Harry figures he’ll leave them to it — it’s early enough it won’t screw with anyone’s schedule to nap for an hour or two.

He finds his underwear bunched up by the foot of the bed, pulling them on and grabbing sweats and a t-shirt from his dresser. Beau’s sitting expectantly outside the door when he cracks it open.

“Hi bud,” Harry murmurs. “Sorry I sexiled you.”

Beau tentatively wags at him.

“You want to go for a run while those lazy fuckers sleep?” Harry asks, and the wagging gets a whole lot more enthusiastic. Harry guesses he’s used the word enough that it’s as loaded as ‘walk’, except maybe even more so, because Beau knows it means, ‘walk, but even more fun because fast!’. Beau definitely enjoys runs way more than Harry does, though Harry enjoys running a lot more now that he’s got Beau as a running partner. Treadmills can’t compare to dog companionship, even if it’s cold as balls out.

Harry doesn’t push the pace, goes just fast enough to keep himself warm in his hoodie despite the chill, hovering somewhere in the twenties, the bite of wind cutting through him. Fast enough to get Beau a workout but not exhaust him, and when Beau falls behind Harry drops down to a slow jog, then a walk, turning around when he starts to shiver, sweat sharp cold against his skin.

By the time he gets back to his place the sun’s starting its slow descent and he’s ready for a nap, mostly because it’s an excuse to get under the covers, leech heat from sleep warm skin as he thaws. Unfortunately it’s not meant to be, because he can hear clattering from the kitchen when he gets inside, muffled conversation. 

Beau gravitates towards the kitchen after enduring Harry cleaning the snow off his paws and a quick rubdown, and Harry follows him to find Roman rooting through his fridge and Evan sliding out of a stool and onto his knees to pet Beau, murmuring something to him. It’s too soft to hear what he’s saying, but Harry can hear the affectionate inflection of it. Harry’s honestly a little surprised that Evan doesn’t have a dog of his own, with how big a dog person he seems to be, but then, he’s totally the kind of guy who’d feel horribly guilty about leaving them every roadie, so maybe it isn’t surprising at all.

“You hungry?” Roman asks, twisting out of the fridge with a carton of milk Harry’s only 50% sure isn’t expired and a carton of eggs.

“Making yourself right at home, huh, Novak?” Harry asks.

“Connie’s hungry,” Roman says. Harry’s sure that’s true — Ev’s always hungry, which isn’t surprising considering he’s _huge_ —and equally sure Roman phrased it exactly that way because he knew Harry wouldn’t snipe if he knew Roman was raiding his fridge for Evan. Crafty fucker. “Where’d you go?”

“For a run,” Harry says. “Got me and Beau some exercise while you two were being lazy.”

“Guess we got to work harder at wearing you out,” Roman says, blandly conversational, and Harry would go red if he wasn’t sure he was already there, pinked up from the cold.

He joins Evan on the floor, sitting cross-legged and scratching behind Beau’s ears while Beau preens at all the attention he’s getting. Evan’s hand nudges his, then jerks back.

“Your hands are freezing,” Evan hisses, but he takes one between his, and Harry feels warmed right through, partly, but not completely, because Evan’s hands start warming his up. Once his hand is less like an icicle, he laces his fingers between Evan’s.

Harry’s just chilling there, sitting on the floor holding Evan’s hand over his dog while Roman raids the spice rack Annie got him when he moved in. It’s pretty surreal. Like, he’s not complaining, but. Surreal.

“Breakfast for dinner?” Roman says. “I’m too lazy to make anything else.”

Now that Harry’s in his warm kitchen — stone floor under his ass excepted — feeling toasty and a little sleepy, his dinner making limit is maybe picking up the phone for delivery, if not just ordering online, so he can’t throw any shade about Roman’s laziness level. Well, he could, but he’d rather have Roman make them dinner, so. Discretion, better part of valor, etc.

“There’s bacon in the freezer,” Harry says, because it’s not breakfast for dinner if there’s no bacon.

“Breakfast for dinner it is,” Roman says.

Harry and Evan love Beau up with their free hands while Roman clatters through Harry’s pots and pans. “My ass is numb,” Harry complains after a minute. Also his hand is kind of sweaty, but he’s not going to complain about it because holding hands is basically the best. Harry sometimes missed it more than sex in the long dry spell before he got smacked in the head with his feelings for Evan. Not all the time, but sometimes. “Sorry, Beau, I gotta leave you. Daddy’s got to look out for his back.”

Roman snorts. “Daddy?” he says. “Really?”

“I feed him and pick up his shit, I’m his dad,” Harry says. “Coming up, Evan?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, and adds a “Sorry, Beau,” of his own.

Harry presses a kiss to the back of Evan’s hand before they disentangle their fingers, feels like some regency hero or something when Evan blushes on cue. Living the damn dream.

Harry lounges while Evan, much more inclined to be helpful than he is, assists Roman with dinner. Harry doesn’t think anyone other than him has actually used his kitchen before, except maybe family members grunting and jabbing at the coffee machine and making toast or something. The Chalmers aren’t really gourmet chefs — like, him and Annie are probably the best cooks in their family, which is just plain sad.

Roman moves around his kitchen with the kind of confidence you wouldn’t expect, considering it isn’t his own and he’s never even been in there before. That’s just Roman, though, Harry’s coming to realize. He doesn’t have that whole cocky bravado thing or anything, isn’t loud about it like, say, Sam is, but the first time Harry ever saw him at a complete loss was with Evan, and it was jarring for some reason, even at the time. He’s getting why, now.

Despite claiming that he’s lazy, Roman’s definition of breakfast for dinner is more impressive than Harry was expecting, especially considering what he was provided with. Instead of bacon and scrambled eggs, which is what Harry figured it’d be, it’s big fluffy omelets — egg white for Evan, which Evan clearly appreciates — bacon, because obviously, and potatoes Harry bought when he was feeling ambitious then immediately forgot he had, sauteed with onions and garlic and like fifteen kinds of spices that Harry hasn’t ever touched before. It is obnoxiously delicious. Less obnoxious when Harry remembers that he can probably make Roman cook for him now. Then it’s just delicious.

“I’m keeping you,” Harry says aloud, and snatches a slice of bacon off Roman’s plate while he’s laughing, and therefore too distracted to stop him.

“There’s extra bacon on the stove,” Roman says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “But yours are right here. And you’ve got a big enough ass already.”

“You seem to like it,” Roman says. “You mention it enough.”

“Well,” Harry says, then realizes he has no retort. Like, he’s not going to say he doesn’t: he’s not a _liar_. “Fuck off.”

“Nice comeback,” Evan says.

“And you,” Harry says. “Shut up. And also you have a very nice ass too.”

“Enough to get whiplash, hanging around you,” Roman mutters, while Evan, clearly warring between flustered and knee-jerk politeness, says, “Uh, thanks?”

“You’re very welcome,” Harry says, then, unable to resist, “Sweet cheeks.”

“I’m going to throw a potato at you,” Evan says, but Harry doesn’t believe him even a little. Evan is way too mature to throw food. He’s safe.

“Sure you are,” Harry says. “Sweet cheeks.”

A slice of potato hits him in the temple.

“Didn’t your mom every teach you not to throw food?” Harry scowls at Roman’s unrepentant face. 

“I was defending Sweet Cheek’s honor,” Roman says.

“You’re both terrible,” Evan mumbles, shoveling a forkful of potato in his mouth and scowling the most adorable, unthreatening scowl in Harry’s direction before picking up a slice of bacon, eyes drifting beside his chair.

Harry follows his gaze, sees Beau begging, which he’s not allowed to do, and he _knows_ he’s not allowed to do. He’s smart enough to target Evan, who is clearly the weakest link, and who’s sitting across from Harry so Harry can’t nudge Beau away. “Beau,” Harry says, and Beau gives him a guilty look and then shuffles onto Evan’s other side to beg some more. Little shit.

Evan looks like he’s about to crack. He’s still got that slice of bacon in his hand, and if it dips any lower, so help Harry —

“Remember the food rule,” Harry says to Evan, and Evan guiltily drops his bacon back onto his plate.

“Food rule?” Roman says.

“Feed my dog at the table and I’m dumping you,” Harry says. Beau knows better than to beg at the table when it’s just him and Harry, but he always goes right back to it when he has guests. Harry suspects some of those guests have been undermining Harry’s training, and fuck knows he’s not letting his boyfriends do the same.

Boyfriends. What. Unless it’s too early to say, but. Boyfriends. Plural.

Annie’s going to lose her shit when he gets around to telling her about this. Harry guiltily reminds himself himself to give her a call. It’ll probably be a bit excruciating, but he has a feeling he’ll enjoy her reaction, if not how annoyed she’s going to be that he kept her out of the loop about it for so long.

Roman makes them do the dishes after, because he ‘made dinner’ and ‘it’s your house’, and ‘stop complaining, Harry, you lazy shit, look, Connie’s already at the sink, you going to make him do it himself?’. Harry’s got a dishwasher, but Evan insists on a whole system of wash and dry, and Harry doesn’t mind too much, hip to, well, thigh with Evan at the sink, Evan’s sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hands pink from the hot water. All he needs is an apron to basically be a domestic pin-up. Harry can dry some dishes for the view.

“Movie?” Roman asks, fingers brushing Harry’s hip, and by the time they finish washing up, Roman’s queued up Netflix. Harry’s reluctantly impressed he managed to figure out which remote to use, because sometimes even _Harry_ can’t and just goes upstairs to watch whatever on the TV in his bedroom. They opt for a brainless action classic that Roman and Harry have seen but Evan hasn’t somehow, and Harry shuts his brain off, leaning his head on Evan’s shoulder, more aware of Roman’s hand resting on his knee than whatever’s exploding on screen.

“When do we have practice tomorrow?” Roman asks as the credits are rolling, interrupted by a yawn that becomes contagious.

“Ten,” Harry mumbles against Evan’s shoulder.

“Shit,” Roman says. “I should head out.”

Evan’s tenses a little then, like he’s now also obligated to leave, and fuck that. That’s stupid. Anyone leaving is stupid.

“You guys can just sleep here,” Harry says.

“Doubt there’s anything you’ve got that’ll fit me,” Roman says, though he doesn’t sound too bothered by it, probably because there’s an easy fix to that called ‘going home to change in the morning’. “And Zuza—” he says, a lot more bothered.

Harry shrugs. “Go grab some clothes and your dog,” he says. “You’re not far, and Beau’s chill around other dogs.”

“Yeah?” Roman says.

“I’ve probably told Evan this a billion times,” Harry says. “But I don’t offer things unless I mean it.”

Roman’s mouth quirks a bit. “I’ve noticed that.”

“So get your stupid clothes and your stupid dog,” Harry says, then immediately feels bad. It’s not her fault Roman’s her dog dad. “Your perfectly nice dog,” he amends. “I’m sure.”

Roman snorts. “Back in twenty?”

“We’ll be here,” Harry says. “I’m sure as shit not moving, so Evan’s stuck.”

“I don’t mind,” Evan says, and Harry shivers a little as he scratches through the short hair at the nape of Harry’s neck.

“You frozen or something?” Harry asks, when Roman doesn’t get up.

“You’re not making going out in the cold very tempting,” Roman says.

“Go get your dog,” Harry says, and kicks Roman’s shin until he gets up.

Harry doesn’t know how long Roman actually takes. It feels like a minute, but that’s because he’s pleasantly drifting, has sunk to press his cheek against Evan’s chest, lulled by the slow thud of his heart and his fingers still drifting through his hair.

He doesn’t knock, which is rude, but possibly less rude than knocking even though the door’s unlocked and making Harry get up from his cozy spot, he guesses. Harry gets up anyway, though, because he’s about ready for bed, and he kind of wants to meet the puppy. 

Roman’s dog is tiny. Tiny. It’s the most ridiculous thing Harry’s seen, this tiny speck of a dog in Roman’s giant arms. She looks like a husky met a shrink ray and Harry loves her immediately.

“Just waiting ‘til she calms down a bit before I put her down,” Roman says. “Or she’d go tearing through here.”

“Oh my god, hi doggie,” Harry says. It comes out maybe a little high-pitched. It isn’t his fault. Tiny dog. Huge guy. Apparently Harry has a thing for that he never noticed before, because _damn_.

“Harry, Zuza,” Roman says.

“Hi Zuza,” Harry croons.

Roman’s smirking, like he knows _exactly_ how gone for his dog Harry already is. Whatever, she’s adorable. Like, the second most adorable dog in the world.

“You chill, little bear?” Roman murmurs, and Harry kind of melts. He’s not proud of it, but he does.

Roman crouches to let Zuza down, and if she was chill she is emphatically not now, darting around to sniff and wag her tail at all the cool new things, like Evan, who crouches to pet her, then Harry, who does the same and resists the urge to just faceplant in her, then the banister, and finally, with an excited little bark as tiny as she is, at Beau.

Beau seems to have less of a thing for tiny dog, huge man (bad taste, Beau). He looks down at her warily, and starts backing up until he reaches his downstairs hallway dog bed (he maybe has three beds — Harry wants him to be comfortable wherever he is) before lying down and giving Harry this look, all “Why did you bring me this?”

Because she’s adorable, obviously, Beau.

Zuza flops on him, all wagging tail — it’s so fluffy! — her butt up like she’s planning on pouncing until he pays attention to her. 

“She wants to play, Beau,” Harry says, when Beau doesn’t do anything. “Play with the puppy.”

Beau isn’t listening to him, just stares at Zuza with complete bewilderment.

“Now, Beau,” Harry says. “Don’t leave her hanging, that’s a dick move.”

“I can’t believe you boss around your dog too,” Roman says.

“Yes you can,” Evan murmurs.

“Yes I can,” Roman says.

Harry gives them both the finger but doesn’t look away from the dogs, because Beau listened to him like the very good boy he is. Harry’s kind of worried, at first, because Beau’s like ten times her size, but he’s gentle with her, batting her around a little, but not treating her like he treats his dog toys.

Evan’s got his phone out. 

“Whatever pictures you’re taking, I want you to send me,” Harry says.

“Already sent you some,” Evan says.

“Aww,” Harry says. “Best boyfriend.”

“You know you can’t say that now that you have two,” Evan says.

“Yes I can,” Harry says. “Because you’re obviously the best one.”

Roman kicks his ankle. Harry kicks back.

“I brought a puppy,” Roman says. “And made you dinner.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Harry says, before mouthing ‘best boyfriend’ at Evan, who rolls his eyes a bit then smiles.

“It’s getting late,” Roman says, when the kiddos have tired themselves out and Beau’s retreated to the living room, Zuza following him as fast as she can on her short little legs. Harry wants that dog. Harry is going to steal that dog.

“You guys can go to bed without me,” Harry says. “I’ll just hang out with the puppies.”

“C’mon, Chalmers,” Roman says, dragging Harry by the back of the shirt, which, _rude_ , away the glimpse of the cutest thing he’s ever seen in his life, Zuza trying and failing to scrabble her way onto the couch so she can hang out with his bro Beau.

“I’m going to kidnap your dog,” Harry says. “Dognap, I guess would be more accurate. Just letting you know.”

“I know where you live,” Roman says dryly.

“Ev, Roman’s threatening me again,” Harry says.

“You threatened him first,” Evan says, which Harry guesses might be true. “Come to bed, babe.”

Harry’s probably called Evan babe a hundred times by now, but he doesn’t think Evan’s called him it before. It makes him feel warm, pleased. He hopes him saying it has had the same effect on Evan. He really hopes.

“I guess,” Harry sighs.

His bed really isn’t big enough for all three of them. It’s not as bad, sleeping wise, as sex wise, and not as bad as it was in the hotel room, but it’s still a little cramped, and they’re overlapping in more places than not. Maybe he should get a king size bed. Is that reading too much into this? It might be, and it’d take over most of his room, but king beds are awesome, so.

 _I should get on that_ , Harry thinks sleepily, and turns his head to press a kiss to the nearest stretch of skin that isn’t his own.


End file.
